did Dad leaving
trigger my sense of revolution or
my sense of depression
that there is no purpose
in the world
that I would eventually have to find the courage
to face those new tremors,
but five years on,
there, between the given textures
already cheap and fraying

or did revolution trigger Dad to leave
and find some other way
to find some truer nature?

-O~~~

I didn’t want the headphones, now
I didn’t want the commentary
all safely wrapped and bordered
so I kept my own eyes
open and saw 50 year old memorabilia
strangely mute, now
despite the peacock-print

and little in between
save shuffling overcoats with
no sense of direction where to go
save their right of individual
way

~~~O-

I don’t think I want the revolution
anymore –
away with your awkward sex! –
I want to know the innate freedom
I trust I have already,
save for my sense of right of way

I cried for fifty years later that evening
it is hard to lose your way returning home
cut up and turning in circles
hoping for the right lane
lights on and direction to go
everywhere
signed
and passing overhead
it is hard to arrive
toe to toe
with a fifty year old overcoat
with no face
but a blinking eye
and me with no headphones

beepbeep

on 30th October 2016, I visited the Victoria & Albert Museum exhibition @You Say You Want a Revolution’ – Records and Rebels 1966-1970 (a birth day present, thank you, Carol); my Dad left our family on 2nd November 1967, my eighth birthday, and the divorce became final by 1969; I think it was Brigitte Bardot who said something about the ‘tremors’ which were felt in the late 60s, but few who had the ‘courage’ to face them, but I can’t seem to find the quote verbatim; we got a bit lost, at first, driving back from west London

it was a shock to see you in hospital, overstretched just
living at home
and still I hadn’t admitted just
how ill you are
and the meet to make the final arrangements
for whenever they become and seeing you face up to this yourself
has shown me dealing with icing and marzipan
and not a lot much courage

it is almost guaranteed that we will not say goodbye as we would like
I’d like to say all the things that a Grand Goodbye at the End of a Life
should
through the choke and early mourning wisp of times
we grew together in Genesta Road
that will always remain

that you are coming to the end of your life
is so definitely sad, you said that
you don’t want us to be too upset
but I am going to be anyway, and already am
I will be losing a dear parent
I will be losing a dear friend
and I have to be sad about that
(with Nan I came through the crying by learning the times we spent together
like a lesson, sharing and doing
I wish I had shared this with her)
I will be sad losing you
but I won’t be sad because I am losing our lives together
these things which have already happened
which cannot be lost
even when you die
even when I die:

your fight to bring us up after Dad left
the sacrifices moving down from Eglington Hill
a posh meal only on Sundays
you said to me one day that we were only a paper delivery away
from the standard of living as when Dad was there
as we crossed a road doing shopping for here and there
the happy stores we had in for Christmas
you having to go to work every day
and making the best of it coming home
to the sparse meal to help with the diet
hundreds of times
hundreds of times which I cannot remember and never experienced
but stay in my heart
somewhere
it wasn’t effort in vain
it wasn’t not noticed
it wasn’t not valued

Thank you. I was aware

from quite early that
I was one of very few children
whose parent had left them in the 1960s
your bringing me up is one of the most treasured things in my life
you taught me this
although I still haven’t mastered
or even learnt it very well: carrying on in duty and love
you have had much to be bitter about
but I have seen you – visibly – emerge
like a Phoenix “come on, this is no good …”
(I am a depressive and a self – indulger and “aren’t you ever going to smile again …?”
that child still does it – far too serious when there is anything to do
with him) and I treasure the laughs we had when younger
I will learn to have them in my own family
because I will miss you when you go
and every time I miss you I will have silly time with them
I remember aching stomach at times
I remember you squealing with laughter
I remember Nan’s joy at seeing you laugh so much when you did;
I know you hadn’t perfected it yourself
I know I only remember the times when it just happened
but it is a valuable lesson
nevertheless

the magic of Eglington Hill
with its many rooms, its endless floors
become a symbol
of possibilities of life, the ‘scene’ of your providing and care
the magic of Genesta Road
where I grew to learn how to see
the bedroom decorated orange and yellow
then black and white because you asked us
with shelves to put my comics and books
the kitchen to study with the smell of meal
the lounge to book and write and type …
flavours of my life
my development now the space which you clothed me in
you are those flavours and
as I ‘develop’ into the future
you are always here
(you always started from what I was
and letting me do what I needed whether you liked it or not
I try the same with my own kids
but only remember when I fail
yet another lesson, Mum,
you have been so wise
and neither you nor I have
fully appreciated it)

the magic of reading:
the mere presence of books
the unfold of opening paper
the rocky uphill of snatched syntax
the scent of travel the pride of cover
I try to have the same for my kids
so that even if they never read them
they will line their walls with book
(Joe has satire and sci-fi and atlas
Jon has earth and struggle and revolution
Charlotte has stacks and stacks of comic)
I will be satisfied with that and I hope you had a similar hope
and yes, Mum, it worked
and it was valuable
another job well done, I think

invigoration of sheets over ourselves and haunting the Common one morning
putting all the milk bottles from the street on the doorstep of one house a few doors down
planning the front room when you won some money, allowing ourselves gift of ideas on wheels
letting me go hitch – hiking when I suddenly said I needed to go – I still don’t know how you did that
friendship of strolling the park, the ruined Abbey, wandering Woolwich on a Saturday morning
Mother and Son strolling

and yes, I can agree with you, you have had a good life
wherever you go we will meet again in some way
and these specks of our lives will intrigue us
in some form familiar but unrecognisable
I am very sad to be losing you but comforted with what we have shared
it is probably only now that I realise how much I love you
and how closely we lived

I shall miss the Mum who taught me a life
but I shall always be breathing the lesson

love from,

Mum died 20th March 1999; I wrote this letter but hesitated sending it – a regret of my life; I ‘send’ it now hoping she’ll read it somewhere. Having marked her would-be 81st birthday the day before yesterday, I thought it high time …

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… Mark; remember …

"... the impulse to keep to yourself what you have learned is not only shameful; it is destructive. Anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes lost to you. You open your safe to find ashes.
~ Annie Dillard